Treason

by Meredith Whitford

  ‘So?’ said Richard, who knew Albany cut no ice in Scotland, and proposed his own terms for treaty. Cecily could still marry James’s son if that in time suited everyone; if not, the Scots would repay the dowry Edward had already handed over. Berwick was to be left alone. Albany had to sign an oath to keep faith with England – and in the end Albany saw the light and struck a deal with Scotland’s Chancellor, pledging that in return for his dukedom and lands he would be loyal to his brother the King.

  On August the fourth, the magistrates of Edinburgh clinched things with an offer. If Richard would withdraw from the city without further harm, they would make themselves responsible for paying back that troublesome dowry if Cecily didn’t marry James’s son.

  It was the best deal we could win. The Scots would not fight, and there was too much internal turmoil for any treaty of real meaning. Content that the Scots had been taught a lasting lesson, Richard led his army back to England.

  He knighted or made knights banneret of the men who had particularly distinguished themselves, he paid off the common soldiers, and then he dismissed most of his army and with the rest turned his attention back to Berwick. A band of Scots made one raid on us, but they got nowhere, and on the twenty-fourth day of August Berwick was back in English hands.

  When I tell you that all England rejoiced – that the King wrote to the Pope himself boasting of these successes and of Richard’s prowess – when I tell you that Calais celebrated with bonfires, parades, firing of their guns – you will have some idea of what the news meant to England. When we rode south just before Christmas for the January Parliament every town we passed through gave us a reception like after the battles back in ’71. We were conquering heroes indeed, and Richard the saviour of England.

  And all this good news was just as well, for in December poor Maximilian could fight on alone no longer. His wife Mary of Burgundy had died in 1482, and now he made peace with Louis of France. Part of the treaty was that his daughter Marie would marry the Dauphin. Louis had had his revenge on Edward at last. No glorious French marriage for his daughter Bess, and never again would he see a sou of his French pension won in ’75.

  I have said I had grown sick of the King after the Clarence business. Yet it wrenched even my mean little heart to see Edward that Christmas. Broken, ill, old before his time, his European diplomacy turned to mockery, our alliance with Burgundy and Brittany gone for nothing, French ships raiding in the Channel – gone for good was the glorious soldier and wily diplomat of the ’60s and ’70s. The only hope for his kingdom’s safety was his brother Richard.

  The country knew it too. Parliament granted Richard hereditary possession of the Wardenship of the West Marches; the castle and constableship of Carlisle; all the King’s lands and revenues of Cumberland; the more than thirty miles of border lands he’d brought under English control and any more he won from the Scots. In short, he was granted more lands, revenues, offices and honours than any English subject had ever had before. It was virtually a principality.

  There were other honours too, for other men. The thanks and praise of Parliament, grants of money – and titles. Francis Lovell was made a viscount to honour the work he’d done in the Scottish war.

  And I was made an Earl.

  We rode north in March of 1483. Going home gladly.

  And none of us could know how soon, or in what circumstances, we would see London again.

  PART II

  Thirteen

  April–May 1483

  That day in April I took the children out hunting. At first I had planned to take only my own children, but winter had clung long in the North and young ones take it hard being pent-up indoors. No one could resist the fine spring weather, and in the end every child of the household was in the party.

  The children all rode well, having been put on ponies as soon as they were old enough to cling on, and when someone proposed a race home I laughed and allowed it. Anne feared that her Edward was too frail, but mothers worry about an only child. It was the pale, fair colouring that he had from Anne herself that gave Edward his air of delicacy, and as a child Richard too had been very thin. Edward was a pleasant boy; his parents tried not to spoil him, but it would have been easy for Richard’s son to grow conceited and demanding.

  As for Katherine, also thirteen, soon it would be time to think of a marriage for her; though I doubted Richard would think the Archangel Gabriel good enough for his girl. Oh, she was pretty! A dear girl with a good heart. Our Cecily too, eleven last December, and already so beautiful she would break your heart. No hairy great randy ruffian was going to win my treasure from me in a hurry. The rest of the children were too young for such plans. Martin, ten, was likewise in henchmen’s training and currently Richard’s page. The twins Richard and Alison, that terrifying pair who had walked at nine months, talked at thirteen, mastered Greek, Latin and French at six and mathematics at seven: university for Richard and I would see him Lord Chancellor one day, and I wished the same were possible for Alison. Perhaps I would send her to Duchess Margaret of Burgundy, another learned lady. Philippa and William were mere babies of six and one; ten placid years before we need plan for them.

  Musing thus, and keeping an eye on the racing children, I scarcely noticed the courier on the road ahead. It was Katherine who reined in beside me and said indignantly, ‘Look at that poor beast!’ She meant the horse, not the messenger, though it was hard to say which was the more exhausted. The horse was plodding along at a stumbling walk, its head down and its skinny flanks heaving. The rider wore Lord Hastings’ bull’s head livery, and I wondered as I pulled up alongside what Hastings thought so urgent his courier need ride himself and his horse half to death.

  ‘Here, man,’ I said, ‘your steed’s foundered. You’re for the Duke at Middleham? Get up behind me and we’ll lead the horse.’ He stared dully at me, too tired to understand. ‘You’re almost there, but that horse will be dead before you’re through the village. I am Lord Robsart, Duke Richard’s friend.’

  Comprehension penetrated his mind. Like a ninety-year-old he swung down, and stood blinking at me. ‘Lord Robsart. Yes. Gloucester’s lieutenant. All speed to the duke.’

  ‘Yes. Come up, man. Or stop at the inn in the village, you can trust me with your letters. What is so urgent from Lord Hastings?’

  ‘Trouble in London. The King is dead.’

  ~~~

  Only Katherine had heard the messenger’s words. She had never met her uncle the King, so her shock was impersonal and she made no demur when I asked her to say nothing for the present and to see the other children home. They were used to sudden messages, and took little notice when I stayed behind.

  I heaved the messenger up onto my horse and led the two steeds back to the castle. The man revived enough to tell me a little more of what was happening in London. None of it was reassuring. The King had died a fortnight ago, it seemed, and although this servant wasn’t in Hastings’ confidence he knew the Queen’s family were rushing to gain control of the government. My thumbs began to prick – you see, when we were last in London for Parliament Richard had told me that Edward had promised to make him Protector in his will in case he died while the Prince of Wales was still under-age. Unless he had changed his mind, Richard was now Protector, Regent of England and lawful head of government. He should have been the first to hear of the King’s death. Hastings’ man had done the journey from London in a little under four days: we should have had official news and been in London by now. And why was Hastings telling us? He was Lord Chamberlain, but it was for the Chancellor – for Parliament – for the Council – to advise the new Protector. Trouble in London, indeed.

  I handed the messenger over to the Middleham steward, asking them to keep silent on the matter until I had told Richard. Then I went to a quiet room downstairs and opened Hastings’ letter. I felt no compunction about this piece of prying: I had to be sure there was no mistake.

  What I read made my blood run cold. The King had died on the nint
h day of April from a chill, stomach trouble and fever. He had indeed named Richard Protector, and on his deathbed he had made Hastings and Dorset and the Queen clasp hands and swear to honour his authority. No more factional feuds: had he believed that? I wondered, especially as I read on. Sir Edward Woodville had tried to take the fleet to sea – Rivers was bringing the new King up from Ludlow – the Woodvilles were pushing for a coronation on May the fourth! Oh, they were in a hurry to seize power and no mistake. Incredulously I turned the letter over, holding it to the window to make out Hastings’ frantic writing. It had come near to open fighting among the Council (Hastings wrote) and he was doing his best to keep things under control and restrain the Woodvilles, but he had to threaten to take all his men back to Calais if the King’s escort to London was not limited to two thousand. Limited! Two thousand is an army – what did the Woodvilles have in mind? But of course the answer was clear: an armed take-over. The only spark of hope was that, according to Hastings, there were enough moderates and sensible men on the Council to block the Woodvilles. But it sounded like a close-run thing – Dorset and the Queen were winning people over every day and acting as if they controlled the government. The letter ended: ‘Get you to London as fast as you can. I have proclaimed your authority as Protector throughout London, and people look to you to stop the Woodvilles and establish good government for the new King. Come in strength and secure the King. Get you here as fast as you can.’

  Grimly I folded the letter away into my shirt and went to find the others. Maddeningly, I learnt that Richard and Anne had gone out riding alone, shortly after I had taken the children out. I knew what that meant. In our world you are never alone except in bed with the curtains drawn, and even then, even at night, you can never be sure you won’t be woken for some emergency. So Anne and Richard had crept out to a certain place by the river, a pretty spot hidden by trees, for a few hours’ precious privacy. Knowing what they might be doing with that privacy, I hadn’t the heart to send someone after them. An hour or two’s delay would do no harm, and meanwhile we others could do what was necessary.

  Of course the Middleham household was used to urgent departures. We sent messages to the stables and the men-at-arms’ quarters, warned the kitchens to prepare journey-food, sent the servants to pack. Richard’s secretary, John Kendal, began to prepare letters for the gentleman and towns of the North; Lord Northumberland was touchy enough, and if he thought Richard had had the news for half an hour without telling him there’d be trouble. Bringing me a draft letter for approval Kendal said,

  ‘If Duke Richard has had no official advice, would the London people have told the Duchess of York? And his sisters?’

  ‘Oh, surely!’ But Kendal raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘No, you’re right – had they known they would have sent messages to Richard. No doubt he will want to write to them himself.’

  Word came then that the sentry had spied Richard and Anne returning. Taking a deep breath I went down to the courtyard and waited for them inside the gate.

  They looked so happy; peaceful and content, rather smug. They smelt of wine, and there were a few betraying bits of grass and leaves on their clothes. When they saw me standing there, clad in black, their smiles faded and they exchanged a glance of great fear. As Richard dismounted I lifted Anne down, and she gripped my arms, saying,

  ‘Martin – not Edward – ’

  Jesu, for a dreadful moment I almost said yes. ‘Don’t fear for your son, lovey, he’s safe and well and having his supper. But there is bad news for you. From London.’ Richard’s eyes met mine, and I saw him pale. ‘I am so sorry. The King is dead.’

  ~~~

  After the couriers had galloped away with the letters, after Richard had approved our preparations and we had supped in silence and heard Mass, Richard simply disappeared. He was needed for all manner of last things, for the business of ruling the North could not be left at a moment’s notice; forty people were demanding him.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ Anne snapped distractedly at the people besieging her with questions. ‘His brother is dead. Give him some time alone. And no, I do not know where he is.’ But she shot me a meaning little glance as she spoke. We both knew where he would be, and Anne knew that just then he would want me, not her; as indeed I wanted him, not Innogen. I had had no time for grief and Richard was the only one who could comfort me.

  When I came through the door onto the roof I saw him at once, where I had known he would be, leaning on the battlements staring out at the dales. This quiet place on the roof had been our bolthole when as boys in training here we had been homesick or miserable or the Master of Henchmen had beaten us.

  Hearing me, Richard swung defensively about. He recognised me and his shoulders slumped in relief. ‘Good. I couldn’t stand anyone but you.’ He turned back again. I went to stand beside him, leaning on my forearms on the wall. It was full dark now. I could see only a light or two from the village, and the dark shape of the hills against the sky. The breeze was fresh and sweet. I could hear the river purling below us.

  ‘I’ve been standing here looking out. I love this country, and I have been wondering if I will ever see it again.’ I said nothing. Empty reassurances were pointless. ‘I’ve been thinking of the past. Of Ludlow. I always loved Edward. I didn’t forgive him for putting George to death, and I despised him at the end, but I loved him. Now all my brothers are dead.’

  I put my hand gently on his shoulder. ‘I loved him too. I remember the first time I saw him. My world had ended, all in a few days – parents dead, house burnt, no home, no family, no future. Until Edward put me on his lap and let me cry. Odd to think he was only eighteen; he seemed fully a man, I thought him a god, yet he was only a boy. Eighteen seems very young, now, doesn’t it?’ Richard nodded, his hair brushing my hand. ‘I detested and rather feared him at the end, and nor did I forgive him. I loved him, though, and now I know it.’ I gave a great childish snuffle as I spoke. Richard put his arms around me, and suddenly we were hugging each other and weeping. We sank down, our backs to the battlements, and as we huddled together our tears mingled.

  If you think after all I have said of Edward that mine were false tears, or that I spoke hypocritically to Richard, you are wrong. I wept, as Richard did, not for the gross whoremonger Edward had become, but for the golden boy who had taken me under his wing, the glorious young king in his victory laurels, our guardian, the man who had loved us, teased us, taught and protected us, who had made us warriors. We wept for our hero, friend, bulwark and our safety. Richard’s last brother. We wept for our past and for our youth. Also, the end of a reign, of an era, is a stunning thing, and Edward had been King for twenty-two years.

  And trouble lay ahead.

  I had brought a flask of wine up with me, and when we had cried ourselves out we dried our faces and leaned again on the battlements, passing the flask back and forth. The air was growing cold; April in the North is no time for standing out on a roof. But we didn’t go in; we wrapped our cloaks tighter and drank the wine, reluctant for any other company.

  ‘I spoke before of Ludlow,’ Richard said at last. ‘And I will not see my children standing in Middleham courtyard waiting for a Woodville army to take them. Or another Lancastrian one. Nor will I allow civil war to spring up again.’ I thought of the way my mother had died; thought of Innogen, Anne, my daughters. ‘I will not be the first to provoke trouble, but nor will I allow the Woodvilles to take over this kingdom. I have written as much to Hastings, to the new King’s Council, and to Rivers.’ I nodded, for I had seen these letters. They were intended for public sight, so Richard had written plainly of his loyalty to the late king, saying he would be no less loyal to the new king and all his late brother’s issue. His only desire was that the new government be settled according to justice and law, and due regard given to his legal authority as Protector. He added one warning note: nothing contrary to law and the late king’s will could be decreed without harm. To Hastings’ letter he added a brief personal note t
hanking him and saying he was on his way.

  ‘I must make all due haste,’ he mused on, speaking more to himself than to me, ‘but nor will I seem to sweep down with an army. I am Protector and the new King’s uncle; no more. I come to London only to take my rightful place. If the Woodvilles have acted in good faith – ’ we both laughed cynically – ‘then we shall deal cordially together. But Lord, I wish I knew my nephew! Edward was wrong to send him to Ludlow so young, he can know nothing of London, or a king’s business. Or of me.’

  ‘True. And probably the Woodvilles have primed him with their own version of facts. But you have the Protector’s authority, they can do nothing about that.’

  ‘They can kill me.’

  It was nothing I had not already faced, but for a moment it seemed the wind had grown colder.

  ‘I am a threat to the Woodvilles,’ he went on without expression. ‘Plainly they are desperate to seize power and get the new King crowned as fast as they can. And plainly they know I will never be content to let them. Christ, have the country run by the Woodvilles! Margaret of Anjou all over again!’

  ‘A Protectorate lasts until the King’s of age. Eighteen – sixteen at the earliest. Four years. Crowning him will make no difference.’

  Frowning, Richard said, ‘Trouble is, there’s no actual law. Precedent, yes, but no law. My father was Protector when Henry Six went mad... but look back to Henry’s childhood! Duke Humphrey – also Duke of Gloucester, not the best omen – was named Protector by his late brother Henry the Fifth, and what happened? He ended up with nothing but nominal power while the Beauforts and their cronies ran things. And made a right pig’s breakfast of it. Same will happen again, give the Woodvilles an inch and they’ll take a mile. And even if I stayed here doing nothing, asking no power and keeping the Scots off, how long do you think I’d be allowed to go on doing that? They would have my lands off me and all my authority, they’d render me powerless then trump up some charge of treason and that would be the end of me.’